


Pinpricks in Maps

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Madness, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in their flat. He wanted to be with John. </p>
<p>Sherlock and John spiral in different directions during those two years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ariane DeVere for the transcripts of all the episodes.

God, how he hated Miami. It was hot. Too hot. Far too hot. How did anyone function like this? Despite his newly-shorn hair and weather-appropriate clothing (and SPF 1000 sunscreen or he’s be just a piece of streaky bacon sizzling on the pavement), Sherlock had not been able to adjust to the climate of his current surroundings. Six weeks of misery. Six weeks of feeling nauseated. Six weeks of his currently light brown hair doing very strange things from the humidity (although the dye job might be partially to blame). At first he had showered two or even three times a day, but when he discovered that seconds after stepping out of the shower he was covered in perspiration again, he gave it up as a job badly done and stuck to one shower before he went to bed.  
  
Of course, going to bed didn’t necessarily mean evening or night or even every twenty-four hours. Not with what he was doing.  
  
And of course also because of what he was doing, and how he was doing it, he was stuck in a rent-by-the-week furnished apartment, and despite what it was costing him, the air conditioning was a whimsical thing. How had he survived the last time he was there?  
  
It was four o’clock. The sun would be rising soon, but it didn’t matter. The dark of night never cooled anything down. He let himself into the apartment, fumbling with the key. God, he was tired. He tossed his keys and mobile ( _cell phone,_ he reminded himself) onto a table and flung himself down into one of the chairs. He pulled his laptop toward himself, opened up a file, and began typing. Rapidly.  
  
After twenty minutes, he finished and closed the file. He rose and wandered into the bedroom. Stripped. Dropped his disgusting, soggy, limp clothing on the floor. Strode into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. He shuddered as the cold air hit him, making his skin clammy and his head ache. He took out one of the tins ( _cans,_ you idiot) of stewed pears, holding the lovely, cool thing to his forehead before opening it. Grabbing a spoon and a bowl from the sink (he was fairly sure that he had washed or at least rinsed them, wasn’t he?), he dumped out the pears, syrup and all, and began to eat them, standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. This was one of the only things he found that he could eat.  
  
He drank the remaining syrup straight from the bowl, not worrying when some of it streamed down his chin and onto his chest. The bowl and spoon clattered back into the sink as he headed for the shower.  
  
He supposed it all would be worth it, once he was done, but sometimes, lying naked on the rough, cheap sheets, he found the big picture hard to focus on.  
  
He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in their flat. He wanted to be with John.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_“I’m here because…”_  
  
Don’t make me say it  
  
_“You need to get it out.”_  
  
No I don’t need to get it out  
  
I’m not even out.  
  
How could I be out when I’m not even gay?  
  
Even if the “media”—fucking vampires—say I am a “confirmed bachelor.” What the fuck is that supposed to mean anyway? He was male and not married, and that could be verified.  
  
He almost giggled. So many words. Who uses so many words?  
  
_“My best friend…”_  
  
My best friend used so many words that the man would never shut up except when he did and I swore that he’d continue talking well after his death, complaining about how dull the grave was.  
  
About how bored he was.  
  
And now he’s stiff as a board.  
  
Shouldn’t laugh—it’s not a crime scene but a crime nonetheless. Because observing rigor mortis wasn’t a very precise method of determining time of death.  
  
Not for the corpse, either.  
  
_“Sherlock Holmes…”_  
  
Ridiculous name ridiculous man brilliant man  
  
Falling man  
  
Fallen man  
  
Fallen down  
  
Spiralling down  
  
Onto the floor  
  
Oh there went your blocks all over the floor  
  
I’ll pick them up for you, sweetheart  
  
I’ll pick up the pieces for you  
  
but I can’t pick up the pieces—  
  
the pieces of—  
  
_“… is dead.”_  
  


> I can’t pick up the pieces of you  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, Charles. It’s been—what—years? You look good.”  
  
“Hi, Tony.” He stuck out his hand in that overly-intrusive way that Americans did. “You look good, too.”  
  
“Bullshit. I put on fifty pounds and lost fifty percent of my hair. What have you been up to?” He waved them toward a booth in the back of the bar. “Hey, Barb, my usual and… what’ll you have, Charles?”  
  
“Gin and tonic.” He smiled disarmingly.  
  
The bartender nodded and got to work on their drinks.  
  
“Ooh, I’m beat,” Tony commented. “Been living here fifteen years and I still miss New York weather—four seasons, you know?”  
  
“I agree wholeheartedly.” He nodded congenially at the bartender as she placed their drinks on the table.  
  
“I’ve got this round,” Tony offered. “You get the next.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“So, what brings you from… where were you living last? Oklahoma?”  
  
“Oh, I’ve been bouncing around. Doing this and that.”  
  
They both watched out of the corners of their eyes as the bartender moved to the other end of the bar. They leaned in.  
  
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” Tony muttered. “This isn’t exactly the safest place for you to be.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Didn’t have a choice. I’ve got a hold of some… items… and this seemed the best place to dispose of them.”  
  
“Shit, Charles. I thought you were out of that.”  
  
“It wasn’t intentional. Fallout from a little party.” He shrugged casually and took a drink. He shuddered as the ice-cold beverage and lime hit him simultaneously. “Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “Problem is, I’ve been out of town for so long. No connections any more, you know?”  
  
Tony nodded and gulped his beer. “It’s fast turnover, but I’ve still got some fingers in.”  
  
“Excellent.”  
  
“So whatta you got?”


	4. Chapter 4

Greg Lestrade glanced around his friend’s new flat. It was bright and clean and organized. No piles of books and papers. Nothing stuck to the walls. No Union Jack pillow or beat-up easy chairs. No lab equipment or strange smells. Not a skull in sight.  
  
It was horrid.  
  
*  
  
He had been back to the flat on Baker Street several times since... well.  
  
The first time was right after; as soon as John had been brought home. John had been seated in his chair. He had on his shoes and his jacket still. He was sitting quite upright, his hands firmly on his knees. He had a gash on his head but he couldn’t say precisely (or even imprecisely) how it had gotten there. He didn’t flinch when Greg retrieved first aid supplies and cleaned and bandaged it for him.  
  
He didn’t really say much of anything for the next week or so. Mycroft had taken care of all the arrangements, including sending someone to get John up, showered, dressed, and into the car. He had been fairly complacent, if a bit confused, about it all, until they had gotten to the church. Only then had he balked; had refused to go in. “No,” was all he said, and encouraging hands reached out to him and pulled him gently down the aisle.  
  
After that, Greg came by regularly. He would pop in to say hello to Mrs Hudson (which always seemed to make her cry, but she assured him that everything was making her cry so he shouldn’t take it personally). She would report on how John was doing; what he was doing. What he was not doing. He apparently wasn’t doing much, including eating or sleeping. He did go out a few times, but mostly he stared at the telly, and she was sure that he had no idea what he was watching.  
  
Then Greg would trudge up the familiar stairs. He’d knock just to be polite, but never waited for a response. As Mrs Hudson had said, most of the time John was sitting, staring at the television. Sometimes there would be a movie showing. Sometimes it was the news, or a talk show, or one of those singing programmes.  
  
Sometimes, it was CBeebies.  
  
Sometimes John would shout at him; tell him to get out. Get Out. GET OUT. GET THE FUCK OUT.  
  
Sometimes he’d throw things. Once it had been a full glass of whisky, and despite having apparently consumed a great deal of the bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of him _and_ having a bad shoulder, his aim was uncanny.  
  
Sometimes he wouldn’t even notice that the grey-haired man had come in. Those were the days that he was also most likely to need a shower and a shave, and Greg would haul him into the bathroom and set him to rights. Mrs Hudson was the one to suggest that he stash the razor in her flat.  
  
John’s gun, of course, was long gone.  
  
But the worst days were:  
  
“Oh, hello, Greg! Come on in. Have a seat. What brings you here?” Greg would hold his breath and wait for it. “You have something for Sherlock? He’s out right now, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”  
  
*  
  
The last time he had been in 221B Baker Street was to retrieve some of John’s clothing from the light-blue bedroom, to bring to him where he was staying for a bit. It was a nice place. Very quiet and calm. He was not allowed to have a belt or his shaving gear, but otherwise, it was a good place for him at the time.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun rose; another disgusting day. Sherlock had gotten in about five o’clock. He had been awake for 36 hours but he knew himself; there was no way he’d be able to go to sleep just yet. Too wired. He most certainly didn’t want to eat.  
  
Shower. Yes. His skin was covered in a disgusting film of sunscreen and sweat to which the dirt of the warehouse floor was adhering. Despite the filth (he wondered how many layers of skin he was scrubbing off) he didn’t linger long under the water. Things to do.  
  
He popped out the brown contacts and towelled off ineffectively, then padded, naked, over to the small table. He put the damp towel on the chair and sat on it. He had finally had the presence of mind to purchase his own towels, replacing the horribly rough and thin things supplied by the rental agency with lovely, soft ones in a soothing grey. He had also finally found a washing liquid that didn’t make him itch or sometimes break out in a rash. Sometimes when he was drying off, he’d linger, holding a towel to his face and just breathing it in.  
  
But now he flipped open his laptop and was soon entirely focused on typing and uploading files to a secure site. He knew that he would never get an acknowledgment or response of any sort—that would have been idiotic—but sometimes he did wonder if everything he had done so far had actually meant that he was making progress. He hated working in the dark like that. It was so much more fun ( _bit not good,_ he heard John reprimand) when he got to see a case through to the end. Well, almost to the end. Appearing in court was clearly not one of his strengths.  
  
No. He _was_ making progress. He knew it.  
  
He finished his task and exited out of the website. Once he did so, he knew that his password would change automatically, and he would have to solve the crossword on the _Times’_ website to discover the new one. Well, not the most current crossword. There was an equation to figure out which one, and then solve it, and then another calculation to figure out which clue to select, and then translate that via a fairly simple substitution code…  
  
It was tedious, but necessary, and so far it had worked. If it had been compromised, he wouldn’t be able to continue to log in. And then he’d have to go back to New York to obtain the new equations, and there was every possibility that his contact there had been compromised as well. Ugh.  
  
He went onto another website now. He typed quickly into the search window, set it on auto play, turned up the volume, and gave a very small smile as the soothing sounds of a violin and piano filled the room. He wandered over to the bed, towel in hand, laying it over the rough duvet before lying down on it.  
  
God, he missed his violin. Maybe when he moved to his next location, he could pick up a cheap one. But how would he get away with playing in a hotel room? Frustrated, he shut his eyes as the music flowed over him; almost tangible on his bare skin. His fingers itched for strings and bow. He imagined himself back home, in the flat, by the window, his stand in front of him, his back to the room, playing out the open window.  
  
He thought about John sitting in his chair by the fire, smiling that sweet, admiring, and a bit sleepy smile that he always offered his flatmate when he played. Even when they were first living together ( _of course_ John was using the second bedroom upstairs back then), the doctor had never objected to his playing. Well, sometimes, in the middle of the night, depending on what he was playing, so Sherlock began to be more thoughtful about the pieces, and eventually John admitted that he often slept better when the soft sounds floated up the stairs.  
  
Yes. Standing by the window. Back to the room. John in his chair. John not in his chair. John now behind him (God, he could walk quietly!). Now there were arms around him. This was one of his favourite things—John’s warm body pressed up behind his, sturdy arms encircling his waist, forehead tucked between his shoulder blades. He had no idea why it felt so lovely, but it did.  
  
And then eventually he would put down the violin and bow, carefully, and turn around in that circle of strong arms, and wrap his own too-thin, long arms around the broad shoulders. And he could tip his head down and John could tip his up…  
  
 _Snogging,_ John called it. Silly word, but somehow more descriptive than simply kissing. Because they were certainly doing more than just kissing after a very short while. Snogging included a rather snub nose nuzzling along his cheek and down his neck and he would shiver in delight at how it felt and John would murmur _you smell so good_ and his voice would make him shiver even more. And Sherlock would kiss the crown of John’s head, and his forehead (which wasn’t wrinkled in alarm or anger or disgust for the moment), and his eyes (softly on closed lids) and his nose, and his cheeks, and his chin, and back to his lips.  
  
And then the kissing would become a bit more insistent, and John’s hands wouldn’t be content just resting on Sherlock’s hips. They would slide steadily up his spine and then (this was much preferred) down. Oh, he did like that.  
  


> One time while doing this, John had interrupted their kissing to remark, “You have the most delicious backside I’ve ever seen. You were driving me mad today at the crime scene. Every time you bent over I just wanted to grab it.”
> 
> “Why, Doctor Watson!” he had exclaimed in mock offence. “How crude! I’m fairly sure that Lestrade would have something to say about that.”
> 
> “He can say what he likes,” his blogger growled back. “I’m not sharing.”
> 
> And he had demonstrated his attachment to the body part in question in a way that left no question about his dedication to it.

Sherlock, alone on his bed, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, air conditioner droning ineffectively, shivered.

Kissing and hands and then a certain pressure; a certain _encouragement,_ as it were. John was always more assertive about it, and Sherlock had come to love that moment when it became “apparent” even to an idiot that he was aroused ( _Do you have to use such a poncy word for it?_ John would gripe) because he would respond in kind.

Sherlock, wishing he had thought to close the blinds as the sun rose and started its daily roasting of Miami, made a small sound in his throat and one hand slid down his side.

And usually after the “apparent” part, John would take over entirely ( _God_ he loved it when John went all army captain) and that generally involved a relocation (to the bedroom or sofa or quite often for some reason the kitchen table when it was free of scientific paraphernalia) and a rapid reduction in clothes. Sherlock was the devil when it came to buttons, but John was the master of zips, and they had agreed very early on that an occasional t-shirt left on was fine but NO SOCKS.

Sherlock smiled as his fingers slid across his sweat-slick skin.

And there continued to be kisses and snogging and groping and all that but now there was…

There was.

Sherlock stopped smiling as his hand finally wrapped itself around his

> Member? Really? Are you a character in a nineteenth-century novel? John giggled.
> 
> So what do you call it? the detective demanded petulantly.
> 
> And there was a series of lovely, nasty, dirty, delicious words spilling out of his mouth and Sherlock wanted to catch them and keep them; tattoo them on his chest—dick, prick, willy, tool, John Thomas— and then he’d pause because he knew that it was Sherlock’s favourite and it was his too because it just sounded so lovely and naughty and hard coming out of his mouth—and he would look him straight in the eye and whisper: COCK. And Sherlock would repeat it and the word felt good in his mouth and it felt good in his mouth and for quite a long time afterward neither one of them was particularly cognizant of grammar or syntax. 

COCK.

Yes.

His long fingers wrapped around his cock (Would John be proud of him for using that word? He would, and then he would smile that wicked, devilish, lovely smile.) and

Oh and

God that felt good


	6. Chapter 6

Wasn’t his job hard enough?  
  
Weren’t two wrecked marriages enough?  
  
And now—his dad. He knew—had known—about the Parkinson’s and the dementia—for ages. Yes. He had gradually stepped in over the years since his mother had died—someone to clean. Someone to cook a few meals. Someone to help with meds. Someone to remind him to brush his teeth and put on clean clothing. But now? No. Too much. Too erratic. Greg needed to know that his father was being taken care of 24/7. And the poor man—the one who had been so vibrant, so strong—had no idea.  
  
No idea at all.  
  
He had become violent. This was “normal,” according to the slightly-shaken woman who had gone in to do laundry and make him a simple meal and run the hoover. “They get like this—they know there’s something wrong but can’t do anything about it—they get violent in frustration. Honestly, it’s okay. Not the worst I’ve gotten.”  
  
It didn’t matter. He was violent and angry and the helpers entering his home weren’t safe. Enough.  
  
The place was nice. He couldn’t deny that. He had been scrupulous in his research: any signs of neglect? Any reports of violence? No. It was good. His dad was to share a room with another—inmate? Patient? Resident. Yes--and there were communal meals and telly and music nights and he discovered that his dad was a flirt because once he settled in, he often forgot that he had ever lived anywhere else, and Greg would bring him candies and whatnots to present to the ladies, and he grinned because his dad was still his dad and although not steady on his feet he loved a nice dance and he’d been widowed for so, so many years and was he going to begrudge him a bit of fun?  
  
Not one bit.  
  
So now Greg Lestrade added “visit Dad” to his “to do” list. After/during/before “argue with Wife Number Two about the kids” and “placate slightly mad Wife Number One” and rarely before work but never, EVER before “check on John.”  
  



	7. Chapter 7

“Damn, Tony, what did you get me into?”  
  
“It’s not my fault! I swear. Jaime said he’d send someone to pick up; I thought he’d know what he was doing.”  
  
“Considering that he managed to get tailed by what appears to be the entire vice squad of Miami, apparently not.” Sherlock wiped sweat out of his eyes and squirmed. Lying flat on his stomach under some shrubbery with a 250-pound balding New Yorker wouldn’t be nearly as bad as it was if he wasn’t worried about fire ants.  
  
“There’s no way they can trace that stuff to you, is there?” the large man asked.  
  
“Or to you, which is what you really mean.” Tony shot him a sheepish grin. “No, there isn’t.”  
  
“Are you sure?” He flinched as another cruiser drove by, lights flashing.  
  
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m always sure.” Sherlock could feel the sweat rolling down his sides.  
  
Tony snorted. “You haven’t changed a bit. How’s Marty, anyway?”  
  
“Shh. They’re all gone. Let’s move.”  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Was he under water? No. _Don’t be ridiculous, John,_ he told himself. Then why did everything look all watery, and why was it hard to breathe?  
  
After a while (a day? a year? a century?), he surfaced. The sea was storm-rough and roiling; oily-slick-grey and bitterly cold. He decided that under water was much nicer. It was certainly quieter.  
  
He spent some days popping up to the surface, then sinking back under it. On one of the days that he was riding the waves (and they made him feel sick—he had been in the army, after all, not the navy), he saw a small figure in the distance. He headed for it cautiously. It must be on dry land, he reasoned. It didn’t seem to be moving like he was. No. It seemed to be quite firmly stuck, actually, and that seemed rather nice. It would be nice to be not moving up and down on those awful waves.  
  
“Hey, Greg.”  
  
“Hey, John. How are you doing?”  
  
John looked around himself. “There aren’t any pirates here, right?” he asked. “We’re safe?”  
  
Greg patted his knee. “Yeah, mate. We’re safe.”  
  
*  
  
“Hey, John.”  
  
“Oh, hi.”  
  
“What are you doing there?”  
  
“I’m putting away his crayons. They have to go in a specific order. Did you know that? He can leave them all over the flat, including for some reason in the fridge, but when they get put away, they have to be put back in the right order or he pitches an absolute fit.”  
  
*  
  
“Hey, Greg.”  
  
“Hey, John. You look pretty good. You’ve been eating?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Sure. There’s bananas. That’s one of his favourites—sliced bananas in warm milk with cinnamon and sugar. I can always get him to eat that when he won’t touch anything else.”  
  
*  
  
“Hey, John.”  
  
“Hey, Greg. Rummy?” He held up a deck of cards.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
The splatter of shuffled cards; the soft sound of them flipping.  
  
“Sherlock likes that game—what’s it called? When you lay out all the cards and have to find pairs?”  
  
“Memory?”  
  
“Yeah. Don’t ever play it with him. He wins every time.”  
  
*  
  
“He hasn’t been ‘round to see me at all. Do you think he’s cheating on me? I don’t think he would. No. I’m sure he wouldn’t. Would he?”  
  
“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson sniffed. “No, he wouldn’t cheat on you. He’s probably just been busy on a case.”  
  
*  
  
“Greg, thank God you’re here! I think Sherlock’s been kidnapped. I took him to play in the park and he’s just gone. I didn’t take my eyes off him once—I swear I didn’t— but he just dropped out of sight, and these idiots are doing absolutely nothing to find him.”  
  
“It’s all right, John. I’ll find him.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“John, we do know how to find people at The Yard.”  
  
“Thank God for that. He must be so frightened. He doesn’t have his bee with him.”  
  
*  
  
“No, I’m sorry. Dr Watson can’t have visitors right now. He’s having a bit of a rough time today.”  
  
*  
  
*  
  
“Hi, John.”  
  
“Hey, Greg. How about some rummy?” He held up a deck of cards.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The splatter of shuffled cards; the soft sound of them flipping.  
  
“He was an absolute bastard when it came to poker,” John commented. Greg paused in the act of picking up a new card. “Between counting cards and the way he could see people’s ‘tells’—got him chucked out of more than one pub. I can’t imagine how much trouble he would get into in Las Vegas.”  
  
*  
  
After that, Mycroft, who had taken over paying the rent, sent people, and with Mrs Hudson’s help they moved John to his new flat. His new, bright, clean, horrid flat.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

The toilets stunk. They always did, even though Sherlock knew that they were cleaned every day.  
  
God, how he hated that smell.  
  
The three second-form boys who currently had him cornered in the stall didn’t seem to notice it.  
  
True, Sherlock was also a second-form boy, but only because the teachers in the primary school hadn’t known what to do with him, so at age 9 (and small for his age) he found himself surrounded by boys much larger and more worldly.  
  
He hated school.  
  
Unlike the boys who were casually ripping all the pages out of his notebooks and shoving the leaves into the toilet, Sherlock didn’t hate his classes. Not all of them, at any rate. Science, maths, languages—those came to him easily. History was dull (except for the murders; he was rather fond of the Borgias). Sport—well, it really depended. Despite his small size, he was wiry and surprisingly strong and agile. He excelled at fencing and gymnastics and dancing, and he was currently learning a great deal about boxing.  
  
Granted, the boxing was an extracurricular activity at that moment, but he did get one of the boys to drop a notebook. Not that there was much left of it to drop, he noted with dismay.  
  
The door leading to the hallway burst open. “Get away from him, you brats!” A tall figure strode in, brandishing an umbrella.  
  


> One, two! One, two! And through and through
> 
> The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

The boys scattered and dashed out of the room; the slowest of them yelping as the umbrella made contact with his derriere.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” Mycroft was suddenly in the stall with him, his large hands on Sherlock’s thin shoulders.

Sherlock put up one shaking hand and wiped at his nose. “My… blood,” he wailed.

“It’s all right,” Big Brother soothed, taking a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing delicately at the small nose. “It’s a good thing it’s raining today, or I wouldn’t have had my umbrella with me. Let’s go home.”

*

Sherlock shoved the man who was on his knees in front of him away and stumbled out of the stall, refastening his trousers.


	10. Chapter 10

New flat. His things were here. How had his things gotten here? Mycroft and Mrs Hudson had done that while he was—resting.  
  
There was furniture. A sofa. Clean and new and smelled of that finish stuff they put on fabrics, he supposed. A chair. One chair.  
  
Only needed one chair now.  
  
His collection of DVDs fit nicely into the cabinet beneath the telly. He lined up all the James Bond movies by title first, then rearranged them chronologically according to their release dates. That was better. One of Sherlock’s DVDs was there. He wondered if anyone had noticed it: _Postman Pat._ He tucked that one behind all the others.  
  
He shelved his books. He flipped open one of his old medical texts, smiling sadly at the Sherlock-spidery writing all through it. _Just correcting it,_ the maniac had explained.  
  
The bathroom was a dignified grey with white tile. Perfectly sensible. He had an electric razor now, and there wasn’t any need for all the first aid supplies he had stocked in the medicine chest at Baker Street. No razors. There had always been the razors—  
  
The new towels were light blue and white striped. Why hadn’t they had towels like that? No. Far too impractical. Blood was too hard to wash out. He opened up his inexpensive shampoo and smelled it and wondered if the smell of it could justify the cost of buying the kind of shampoo that Sherlock had used. He would think about it.  
  
The kitchen was sleek. Nice, new fridge—and completely thumb-free. Headless. No, that wasn’t true. There was a head of lettuce. _Ha ha, John,_ he groaned to himself. _You are a regular John Cleese._ No eyeballs. No Tizer. No bottles. No milk—shit.  
  
The microwave was spotless; clearly nothing had ever exploded in it. Oh, he had been furious about that one—two—three? In one month.  
  
There was a new set of dishes and cutlery and even new pots and pans. Mrs Hudson had suggested those. He wanted his mugs, though. Maybe he would… no.  
  
The kitchen table was pristine. Not a single acid burn or nick or what was it that had caused that large blackish blotch that never came out? Squid ink. Yes. No squid ink here. _Sounds a bit dull,_ he thought, wandering into the bedroom. The one bedroom. Just needing the one now.  
  
His clothing looked odd in the huge cupboard. The cupboard looked odd. It needed more suits.  
  
He put his underclothes away himself and made a point of not creating a sock index.  
  
*  
  
He wondered what had happened to all their special things. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have gotten rid of any of that, would she? No. She had probably carefully put it all away, crying the whole time.  
  
*  
  
He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was nearly dark when he was finally able to get off the floor of the cupboard, go into the kitchen, and switch on the kettle.  
  
This was normal. This was dull. This was hell.  
  



	11. Chapter 11

“Lestrade,” he rasped, glaring at the clock. 1:13 AM. Who the hell was phoning him? Probably work.  
  
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”  
  
Oh, God. It was John. Greg sat bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean? What don’t you want to do anymore?” He spoke as calmly as he could manage even though he felt anything but.  
  
“I don’t want to feel this way anymore. It’s like these giant waves are washing over me. I feel like I’m drowning.”  
  
“Oh, God, mate. You know you’ve been doing really well.” Greg got out of bed and squinted as he turned on the light.  
  
…  
  
“John?” He looked around; grabbed clothing.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Are you all right—right now?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Greg’s heart was about to beat out of his chest. He juggled his phone and clothing, yanking items on as fast as he could.  
  
“Are you home?” He was out in his entryway now, grabbing his coat from the rack by the door.  
  
“This isn’t home.”  
  
“But you’re in your new flat?” Keys. Where the fuck where his keys?  
  
“Uh… yeah. I guess. Don’t want to be here. Don’t want to be anywhere.”  
  
“John, listen—will you please do what I ask?” He heard a very faint murmur of assent as he located his keys and headed out the door. “Good. Go into your sitting room, sit on the sofa, and wait for me. I’m coming _right_ now, all right?”  
  
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore. Make it stop.” John was crying softly now.  
  
“I’m going to try. Sit tight ‘til I get there, yeah?” Greg slid into his car and wished he could fly.  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Las Vegas was vile, as always. Noisy and crowded and full of tourists. Awful and dry. He was always thirsty.  
  
He couldn’t wait to get out of the city. It was just too much. Too many people; too much data. Even when he was out at three o’clock. Someone had once bragged to him that Vegas was a wonderful place because you could get a cheeseburger at three o’clock in the morning. Who in God’s name wanted a cheeseburger ever, let alone at three o’clock in the morning? He shuddered at the thought.  
  
The hotel was dreadful. Sterile room; standard arrangement. He could be anywhere in America and find the exact same awful duvet; the same hideous paintings on the wall. He wondered what John would say about the horribly rough towels.  
  
Daddy was always so gentle when he dried him off. _Stop that,_ he told himself.  
  
He poked around and found a banana that he had taken from the breakfast buffet. That was all he had been able to stomach lately.  
  
He wondered what John would say about the lack of variety in his diet.  
  
He undressed in the bedroom—throwing the hideous, brightly-coloured shirt into a corner. He wandered naked across the coarse carpet, grimacing at the feel of it.  
  
What would John say about the cleanliness of the carpet?  
  
He popped out the green contacts, stepped into the tub, and showered. He shampooed. The dye made his hair feel brittle and dried out. What colour would he say it was this time? Sort of a ginger. Ridiculous. At least the curls were growing back in.  
  
He wondered what John would say about the colour.  
  
He dragged track pants on over wet legs and sat at the table with the faux-leather-covered folder of information about the hotel. He didn’t care about room service or local religious services. He might need laundry services if he stayed long enough; he had only been able to get three shirts at the thrift store in Texas. He had the wi-fi password. He pulled his laptop toward him and opened a file. He typed for fifteen minutes before giving up and closing it.  
  
He wondered what John was doing.  
  
The banana was sitting on the bathroom sink, untouched.  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“I think it’s bedtime for someone.”  
  
“No!”  
  
John smiled at the very fierce tone. “Yes,” he replied firmly.  
  
“Not tired!”  
  
“I strongly suspect that you are, love.” John reached down for his boy, who was sitting on the floor, surrounded by his building bricks. “Come on.”  
  
Sherlock pulled away from him angrily. “Not tired! Not going to bed!”  
  
“Sherlock, we’re not going through this tonight. You are going to get up, and you are going to brush your teeth, and you are going to change into your pyjamas, and you are going to bed.”  
  
Sherlock swung an arm and the structure he had been building was suddenly in pieces.  
  
“Sherlock! What are you doing?” John frowned.  
  
“No no no NO!” And with a thrust of one foot, the pieces were scattered all over the floor.  
  
John rolled his eyes and took a step closer.  
  
“Oh, fu… sh… “ John struggled to hold his foot, keep his balance, and not use the words he would have liked to use because he didn’t use words like that in front of his little boy. “That hurt!”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. “Daddy?” he whispered. “Your foot’s hurt?”  
  
“Yeah, it is. I stepped on a brick and it really hurt. You were very naughty kicking them all over like that!”  
  
“I…” Sherlock looked up him imploringly. His eyes were filling with tears. “I hurt Daddy?” He dropped his head to his knees and began to wail.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart,” John murmured, kneeling down. “It’s all right. You’re just overtired. You wouldn’t take a nap and you wouldn’t eat your dinner and I really think it’s bedtime now, yeah?” He raised Sherlock’s head with one hand and gently wiped the tears from the pale face with his thumb. Sherlock nodded, beyond words for the moment. John stood back up and reached his hand down. “Come on, my sweet boy.”  
  
A contrite, weepy boy allowed himself to be led into the bathroom. As efficiently as possible, his daddy got his faced wiped with a nice, soft flannel, encouraged him to brush, and had him use the toilet. The strong but gentle hands then pulled him into the bedroom. One, two, three and rumpled, dirty clothes were off and cosy jimjams on, over thick night-time pants just in case of accidents.  
  
The sheets were nice and cool and crisp, and Sherlock didn’t need to be encouraged to slide under the bedclothes. Daddy turned on the nightlight and turned off the big light, and that was nice, too. Then he sat at the head of the bed and opened his arms wide and his sweet boy was in them. He rocked him gently as he kissed the warm crown of his head.  
  
“Is that better, my sweet boy?” he murmured into the messy curls. Sherlock nodded as he slipped his thumb in his mouth. “How about instead of reading you a story tonight, I tell you one?” Daddy suggested. Another nod. “All right. Let’s see.  
  


> “A long time ago, when there were horses instead of cars and coal stoves instead of cookers, right here in London, there was a very clever man. OH, he was clever! He could tell you what you did for a job just by looking at your hands. He knew where you grew up just by listening to you talk. This man was so clever, as a matter of fact, that instead of being a doctor or a lawyer or a schoolteacher, he was a detective…”

With a final kiss, John slid out of the bed and crept out of the bedroom. Sighing, he returned to the sitting room and began to pick up the scattered building bricks.

*

John woke up. The smell of the fresh light blue paint in the bedroom was strong. He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and wept.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

One of his favourite things had always been chips—lovely, golden, hot chips covered in salt and positively swimming in vinegar.  
  
In fact, it was one of the few things he’d eat. His mother had deplored of his eating habits. “Try a bit of this,” she’d beg, offering a forkful of roast chicken. He’d shake his head and keep his mouth clamped shut.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, ‘lock, you’ll like this,” she sang out cheerfully. “It’s a nice lasagne.”  
  
He looked over at the baking dish suspiciously. He usually liked lasagne—well, not the beef. Or the tomatoes. He liked the pasta and the cheese. He took a forkful.  
  
“Sherlock! That was very naughty!” His mum angrily wiped up the mouthful he had spat onto the table. “You usually like lasagne.”  
  
“You’ve done something to it. It’s awful.” He wiped his hand across his lips furiously.  
  
Mummy Holmes sighed. She should have known that trying to sneak courgettes in was a mistake.  
  
*  
  
“Those are vile,” he snarled, pointing a furious finger at the poached eggs.  
  
“So just eat the toast,” she responded tiredly.  
  
“It’s gone all soggy. I’m not touching it.”  
  
“Try the tomatoes.”  
  
“Yuck.”  
  
*  
  
“You cannot live entirely on bacon butties and biscuits.”  
  
“Obviously I can.”  
  
*  
  
No, it was chips or nothing, more often than not. He loved to slide them into his mouth, all hot and salty. Sometimes the vinegar would dribble down his chin and he’d laugh.  
  
*  
  
The thing in his mouth was hot and salty, and he let something dribble down his chin.  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“Are you sure you want to do this?”  
  
“Greg, that’s the fourth time you’ve asked me. Yes, I want to do this.”  
  
John was going with Greg to visit his father.  
  
Talking about his dad with the doctor had been good for both of them, Greg realized. He had been seeing signs of his father’s health starting to truly falter—both mentally and physically—and explaining what he was observing, and John nodding and supplying medical terms for everything, had been greatly reassuring. Not that the prognosis was a bit good, because it wasn’t, but having someone with that background understand and identify and confirm what he thought had made it a bit easier to bear.  
  
It had definitely been good for John. To help his friend, he had begun to do research, honing his medical knowledge of the conditions as they were presented and preparing him for what lay ahead. It felt good to delve into the The BMJ; searching back issues and absorbing—slowly at first and then with increasing speed—what he needed to know. It reminded him that he was, after all, a doctor. He didn’t need to be in the middle of war zone desperately patching up horribly wounded soldiers. He didn’t need to be patching up mad flatmates, either. He could be a good doctor to others, in other ways.  
  
“Oh, hello, Greg! Who’s this?” One of the caretakers smiled pleasantly at them. John was pleased to see that the place was clean, but not sterile—everyday sofas and easy chairs; end tables and a telly made the “day” room comfortable and inviting. There were fresh flowers in vases all around. Older folks—some in wheelchairs but many not—were engaged in board games, putting together puzzles, discussing an article in a magazine. There was a decidedly lively poker game going on in one corner.  
  
“Ally, this is my friend, Doctor John Watson. He’s come to meet Dad.”  
  
“How nice! And excellent timing. He’s having a good day today. He just left to walk Madeleine to the hair dresser.”  
  
“Madeleine? What happened to Linda?” Greg grinned.  
  
“He had lunch with her,” she announced with a smile and wink. “Oh, there he is now. Joseph!” she called out, waving. “Look who’s here!”  
  
John started slightly. He had seen a few photos, but he had had no idea that Greg was essentially the spit and image of his dad. Of course, Mr Lestrade was older, and the Parkinson’s shuffle was managed with a rather formidable-looking cane, but they had the same warm eyes, the same smile.  
  
“Oh, hello, Greg!” the older man called out in delight. He made his way slowly over to them and the two men hugged. “My good boy, always coming to visit,” he bragged. “And who’s this?” he asked, smiling at John now.  
  
“John Watson—friend of your son’s,” the doctor supplied, reaching out a hand and receiving a somewhat shaky but sincere handshake in return.  
  
“John? Good to meet you. Do you work with Greg?”  
  
“We used to. Now we mainly go out to the pub together,” John replied congenially.  
  
The older Lestrade looked at his son. “My son, in a pub? Never,” he offered teasingly. They all laughed. “Come sit down. Have a chat.” A sudden noise from the poker table made them all look over to the corner. There seemed to be a bit of an altercation. “Charlie’s probably cheating again,” he remarked, leading them to an unoccupied sofa.  
  
“I better go check on things,” Ally announced, heading over.  
  
“Funny thing about Charlie cheating is that even when he does, he never wins,” the older Lestrade laughed, and John and Greg joined in.  
  
*  
  
An hour later, Greg glanced at his watch. “Hey, you’ll be having tea soon. We should get going.”  
  
“So soon?”  
  
“Things to do.”  
  
“John, it was great of you to come listen to an old man ramble on.”  
  
“It was my pleasure,” John replied sincerely as he rose. He helped the gentleman up and they shook hands.  
  
“Greg, you come back soon, yeah?”  
  
“Of course, Dad.”  
  
“And give my love to your wife and my grandchildren.”  
  
“Always. Behave yourself!” They embraced and, as they exited, John glanced back. Greg’s father had shuffled over to the poker game to watch.  
  
*  
  
“Thank you, John. I’m so glad he was having such a good day. I miss those,” Greg said warmly as they got into his car.  
  
“I know those days are getting fewer and more far between, yeah?” John offered sympathetically. “Your wife? Does he not know you’re divorced again?”  
  
“Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he thinks I’m still with my first wife. Sometimes he thinks I’m still in school and asks where Mum is.”  
  
“That must be rough.”  
  
Greg, stopped at a red light, turned and looked at his friend. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say something about all the times that he had visited John when he was the one asking where his Sherlock was. Wondering when he’d be back.  
  
Detective Inspectors are smarter than that, though, so he kept it to himself.  
  



	16. Chapter 16

What was that? John sat up abruptly.  
  
“Help! Oh someone help!”  
  
Oh shit. Up out follow the voice  
  
Down the hallway  
  
Second flat on the left  
  
Door was unlocked; open  
  
He entered unhesitantly.  
  
“He just collapsed!” Frantic. Panic. Hysterics.  
  
Okay.  
  
Step in step up check pulse check breathing bit not good start CPR  
  
_Call 999_ between breaths and compressions.  
  
I did already. On the way.  
  
A tiny face surrounded by light blond curls lurking in the hallway.  
  
Crap.  
  
Keep it up, John. One two three four five BREATH compression Don’t let him die here don’t let him die in front of his wife in front of his little girl please no for fuck’s sake breathe BREATHE  
  
Ambulance bag him check him rattle off stats how long unconscious are you a relative she can stay with me it’s fine go with him go on now it’s okay he’ll be okay  
  
*  
  
Back to his flat with the little girl, who was understandably scared and wanting Mummy and Daddy. He had already found a phone number on a tidy list in the kitchen and phoned Grandma. Would take a bit of time but she was on her way.  
  
“Do you want some…?” No to tea to milk to juice to water to biscuits. Sudden enlightenment. Kneel down; dig behind the world of James Bond. Rummage around. Sit up with prize in hand. “Would you like to watch _Postman Pat_?” They would be all right until Grandma arrived.


	17. Chapter 17

The monastery was actually quite nice. Quiet. Predictable. Technically it was a hermitage, and he had become a part of the community without question.  
  
Of course, during the Avalokiteśvara fasting rituals, many people visited, so the woman he was tailing had found it equally easy to become part of the community—in a way.  
  
At least he hadn’t killed one of the monks and taken his place.  
  
The fasting ritual was the best part, of course. And it didn’t matter what colour his hair or eyes were. And after he had exposed the woman (why was she blond?) the monks were so grateful and let him stay and  
  
He supposed he was  
  
He had been  
  
Was he  
  
He  
  
He fell  
  
He was falling  
  
Why was he falling?  
  
He didn’t want to fall again.  
  
*  
  
_Transport, John,_ he murmured, but the caring individuals around him didn’t understand.  
  
He understood them  
  
Bits  
  
Words  
  
Phrases  
  
No sentences  
  
No sentence  
  
No prison sentence  
  
Finish your sentence  
  
Finish your prison sentence  
  
Was his sentence finished?  
  
What was his sentence?  
  
What was his sentience?  
  
Was he sentient?  
  
Was his sentience finished?


	18. Chapter 18

“That’s wonderful, dear!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed.  
  
“Yeah. Nothing exciting—no A & E, but steady work in a small surgery is just fine right now.” John nodded, agreeing with himself.  
  
“You won’t be bored?” she inquired gently, pouring him a bit more tea.  
  
“Probably, but I’ll manage. It’ll get me up and out every day, at least.”  
  
“And talking to people,” the older woman pointed out.  
  
“Yeah, that can’t hurt.”  
  
“I think it’ll be really good for you.”  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Welcome to Nepal.  
  
Hot again.  
  
Mrs Hudson could bake biscuits on the roof of the hotel.  
  
He snickered at this thought.  
  
Biscuits. Yes. That was what he had had for… whatever meal it was  
  
And bananas  
  
They always had bananas at the buffets in Vegas  
  
What other foods started with B?  
  
Beans (John used to do those on toast)  
  
Buffalo? Was that a food? Yes, wings. He had tried one when he was in New York and it took two days to get the greasy, horrid  
  
Ugh  
  
Banoffee pie  
  
Hadn’t had that in ages  
  
Blond  
  
That wasn’t a food, was it?  
  
No  
  
But he wasn’t a food and he was blond now  
  
And straight  
  
His hair was straight  
  
He wasn’t  
  
He giggled  
  
He poked at his laptop for a bit.  
  
Bath  
  
He filled the tub. He found a small bottle of shampoo and poured it into the water to make bubbles.  
  
Bath starts with b  
  
Bubble starts with b  
  
Bee starts with b  
  
He missed his bee  
  
Blood  
  
Blood starts with b  
  
He began to wash the blood out of his blond hair.


	20. Chapter 20

“Why, yes, John, I’d love to go out for some dinner! What did you have in mind?”  
  
Oh. She had accepted. Shit. He wasn’t exactly anticipating that, so he hadn’t exactly been prepared. With—you know—an actual plan. For dinner.  
  
Right.  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck. Why was his jumper suddenly far too warm?  
  
“Erm… yeah. Oh. How do you feel about Italian?”  
  
And that’s how he found himself, two nights later, seated across a small table from the receiving nurse at the surgery. Mary Morstan.  
  
The dinner had been—nice. The food was quite good, and he had managed to select a fairly decent wine—by sheer luck, he admitted, with a dash of _God, some of those are expensive_ thrown in for good measure. He was grateful that he actually knew Mary, and that they had work in common. It made conversation so much easier. They commiserated about the broken water heater together. They laughed about Dr Wilson’s aggravated stories of his mad flatmate. They agreed that the new patient-management software was an absolute nightmare and compared how many times each of them had had to deal with it crashing that day.  
  
He had a simple linguine in clam sauce and Mary had the cuttlefish in squid ink. That had made him sad for a minute, but he wasn’t sure why.  
  
By dessert and the end of the wine, John was surprisingly relaxed, and it was evident that Mary was, too. They shared a pastry filled with cream and topped with berries, which was lovely even if he couldn’t pronounce it. “Not too sweet,” Mary had commented approvingly.  
  
There was something called _sanguinaccio_ on the menu: sweet pâté of pig's blood and chocolate, and he knew a certain person who would think that combining blood and chocolate was the most brilliant thing ever and he had to stop himself from ordering some to take home.  
  
The night air felt pleasant and cool on his face as he held the door for Mary. They strolled down the pavement slowly, and she linked her arm in his, and that seemed all right. “Shall I get a cab or walk you home?” he asked. “Oh, let’s walk,” she responded. “The air is so nice.”  
  
*  
  
Mary’s flat was very like her: small and efficient, with a touch of whimsy here and there. He was amused by the “cat” theme that seemed to appear in every room: on the oven gloves and shaped pillows on the sofa. The light switch plate in the bathroom.  
  
“Do you actually have a cat?” he teased.  
  
“Sadly, no,” she reported. “He ran away.”  
  
She had opened a bottle of wine that she had in her fridge. He debated. He had had only two glasses at dinner. He didn’t have to work the next day. He could take a cab home. Why not? He sat down next to her on the sofa and accepted the glass she offered.  
  



	21. Chapter 21

Did they really consider this a justice system? He had had to pull so many strings he felt like a puppet master. That made him giggle. Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? That’s what he’d been for how many years months weeks days hours  
  
Focus  
  
He sorted through the collection of passports that he usually kept hidden in his laptop case. Through all of it—the hair and names and accents and clothes and cover stories and he never knew what time it was or day it was and had been unpleasantly surprised at one point to discover that it was Christmas and even the criminals were apparently all tucked in their beds with visions of sugarplums  
  
Visions  
  
_Puppenspieler_  
  
What had he been doing?  
  
Passports. Right.  
  
He began knocking them off the bed with one long finger, one at a time.  
  
Bed  
  
Sleep?  
  
No never  
  
Bed was for other things  
  
Had been for other things  
  
He was alone in the bed  
  
That wasn’t right, was it?  
  
What was he wearing?  
  
Was he wearing anything?  
  
He reached down to check  
  
Czech?  
  
No, no clothes.  
  
Naked  
  
Was it all right to be naked?  
  
Naked could be very nice  
  
He checked again  
  
Still naked  
  
Still alone  
  
Still in bed  
  
He reached down again  
  



	22. Chapter 22

Date two had been a movie. That had been all right, but halfway through he realized that he missed shushing a certain bored genius who was poking in the holes in the plot faster than the story itself progressed.  
  
“That was nice,” she commented as they filed out into the lobby.  
  
“How about some dessert?” he suggested.  
  
Dessert was nice.  
  
He ordered Banoffee pie and coffee.  
  
He couldn’t recall, by the time he got back to his flat after bringing her home, what Mary had ordered.  
  



	23. Chapter 23

Lego  
  
There was a Lego shop  
  
A whole shop just for Legos  
  
He was going to go in  
  
He wanted to go in  
  
It was very bright and colourful and loud  
  
He wanted to  
  
He wanted to play  
  


> Werden Sie in oder nicht?
> 
> Nein. Nein. Es tut uns leid. 

He couldn’t go into a big shop like that without his Daddy


	24. Chapter 24

“John?”  
  
No response.  
  
“John? Are you all right?”  
  
A groan.  
  
“It’s all right, you know. Long week. It’s late. Maybe too much beer?”  
  
“Can we not talk about it?”  
  
“Oh! Sorry. Yeah.”  
  
He slid out of the bed and got dressed as fast as he could.  
  
*  
  
He thought about it as he sank back into the deep seat of the cab. God, how embarrassing. He had wanted to. Really. Hadn’t he? Of course he did. She was pretty and fun and nice and willing and it had been so long so if his brain had wanted to why the hell hadn’t his body cooperated?  
  
He thought about her nice, small flat with all its cat décor.  
  
And then he considered the one odd thing he had seen.  
  
In the midst of all of it—cat pictures and fridge magnets and little ceramic figures—one item had stood out. On her dresser, in her bedroom (oh can we please not think about what did and more importantly what did _not_ happen in the bedroom?), there had been a ring holder. It was one of those little dishes with a vertical piece of some sort onto which you slid your rings for safe keeping.  
  
Instead of a cat, it had been shaped like a mouse.  
  



	25. Chapter 25

> Wie viel? _How much?_
> 
> Fünfzig _Fifty_
> 
> Zu viel _Too much_
> 
> Ich bin gut _I’m good_
> 
> Das Geld wert _Worth the money?_
> 
> Ja

It was a bit high for a blow job but he was, as he had said, worth the money.

Sherlock pocketed the fifty euros and set out looking for another client. He needed at least three hundred to purchase the drugs that would get the attention of the corrupt undercover cop he had spotted in the park.

*

He needed to make more. Last night

Last night?

Was it just last night?

No, longer

No longer

No longer what?

No longer interested in—what was he supposed to be doing?

Oh. Right. Hand job.

Make more money

Purchase

He was losing his purchase

Purpose?

Did he have one?

He couldn’t remember


	26. Chapter 26

He lay on his bed, on his back, his eyes shut, naked. He had had a shower and had no interest whatsoever in putting on clothes.  
  
Not that the duvet was comfortable. It wasn’t. It was cheap and coarse and God Sherlock could be a total snob about those things but there was something to be said for thread count and Egyptian cotton. John had gotten spoiled. Those lovely sheets. The duvet. How they felt on his skin. On their skin.  
  
Wanker.  
  
John Watson wasn’t going to be coy.  
  
He was fucking hard and all he wanted was release.  
  
It had been so long. The debacle with the latest—what was her name? Mary—woman had only confirmed for him what so many people had told him over the years. John Watson was not gay. He didn’t fancy other men one bit.  
  
Just one.  
  
Just one somewhat occasionally effeminate and far too thin and far too pretty and those curls and…  
  
Yeah.  
  
Was he bisexual? No. He didn’t think so. He briefly imagined being with another man—a different man. Greg, for examp… No. Let’s not go there. Those eyes… ahem.  
  
He considered being with Mike Stamford and laughed.  
  
He considered being with Mycroft Holmes and nearly gagged.  
  
No. It was Sherlock or no one.  
  
So. No one then.  
  
He sighed and took himself in hand. John Watson was fucking hard and all he wanted was release.  
  
This was physical—this bit. Not the boring showering and shaving bits. This was like running after cabs and leaping from building to building. This was like dragging a wounded soldier into whatever shelter he could find. This was like shoving someone out of the way of a bus. This was the bit about the physical that he liked.  
  
Not the _only_ thing, of course. Clearly. Because if he had been there then the physical bit would be oh so very nice and delicious and hot and sweaty and hard and wet and salty and lovely lovely lovely  
  
He wanted  
  
he wanted  
  
he wanted  
  
John Watson wanted to envelop  
  
he wanted to consume  
  
He wanted Sherlock to somehow crawl inside him and curl up under his rib cage so John could feel him with every beat of his heart and know that he was safe.  
  
And to fill that hole in his chest.  
  
His chest ached.  
  
He ached.  
  
“God, Sherlock.”  
  
Those eyes that hair that skin his smile his lips oh god his lips his voice his hips his hands  
  
Him  
  



	27. Chapter 27

Horrible it had been horrible  
  
He didn’t understand what he had seen  
  
He liked bananas and now he felt like he would never be able to eat one again  
  
Disgusting women  
  
Naughty women  
  
Daddy would not have liked him to see what he saw  
  
It confused him  
  
He thought that all those women in the windows were nasty and they kept tapping on the glass and it frightened him  
  
So he had gone into the place with the banana light over the door and it was even worse  
  
He went back out  
  
Kept walking  
  
Safe in the hotel now  
  
Change into soft, cosy clothes  
  
Need help with buttons, Daddy, he had fussed as he undressed  
  
He pulled the duvet off the big bed (that would be fun to jump on, but he was too sad right now)  
  
Wrapped himself in it  
  
Laid on the floor  
  
There was telly but he couldn’t find any of the programmes he liked  
  
He curled up with the duvet over his head and whimpered  
  
He wanted Daddy  
  
*  
  


> “Good morning, sweet boy. Open your eyes.” He opened his eyes. Daddy was smiling at him. He smiled back. “Did you have a nice sleep?” He nodded. Daddy pulled back the covers. “Does my baby boy need changing?” He checked. “All right. Let’s get you changed and dressed and then we’ll have some nice breakfast, all right?”
> 
> It felt nice to have Daddy change him. He put his thumb in his mouth and watched. 


	28. Chapter 28

“Oh, Greg, I’m so sorry to hear that.”  
  
“It’s not a huge shock. He’d gotten so frail.”  
  
“You have the arrangements yet?”  
  
“Yeah.” Greg rattled off the plans for his father’s funeral.  
  
“I’ll be there.”  
  
“That would great. Thanks, mate.”  
  
He sighed as he rang off. Time to phone the kids and tell them about Granddad.  
  
*  
  
Everything went according to plan. No reason for it not to. Old men died all the time. Wife Number Two had been very nice about it; it was her children’s grandfather, after all. He was shocked that Wife Number One came. He wasn’t even sure who had contacted her until he saw Wife Number Two talking to Wife Number One. Oh. That’s how.  
  
Still, it was nice that they both had come.  
  
It was always nice to see the kids.  
  
Even Anderson came. Poor Anderson. He looked horrible. What was he thinking with that awful beard? He hadn’t been in touch with him in a while, he realized, and he felt guilty about that. He could rectify that.  
  
And then there was John.  
  
He had started out fine. At least, that’s what Greg had thought. He looked dignified and respectful in his suit, even though the tie was clumsily tied. He had chatted with some of the other mourners and made a point of saying hello to the kids. But about halfway through the service, he simply stood up and walked out. He had been sitting behind Greg, of course, so the DI couldn’t see his face, but he could see that the ex-army captain’s hands were clenched in fists.  
  
He didn’t hear a word from him for days, and he was busy dealing with his father’s effects, and that got him to organizing his own things, at least at work, and when he did manage to surface from it all he had gotten in touch with Anderson and invited him for drinks.  
  
And didn’t _that_ turn into a sort of X-Files conversation—was he really titling those incidents? Poor guy. Delusional. Wow.  
  
He picked up the box of items from his office and walked away, hoping the man would come to his senses. After all, Sherlock was dead.


	29. Chapter 29

_Er, yeah, good. Yeah. Much better._  
  
Brilliant, John. So articulate.  
  
Well, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t that it wasn’t true. It was just that Greg had taken him by surprise. Thank God he had thought to put the bottle back in the cabinet before opening the door. Now he retrieved it. He wasn’t drinking that much, was he? No. It wasn’t as if he was sitting there with the bottle on the table—right there on the table. If he did _that,_ then he was drinking too much.  
  
He looked over at the box.  
  
Because he knew all about drinking too much, didn’t he? His sister was an alcoholic, after all.  
  
He put one finger on the lid of the box.  
  
Withdrew it.  
  
Took a sip.  
  
*  
  
Finished the drink. Opened the box. Pour another drink. Put in the DVD.  
  
Oh, Sherlock.  
  
Who the FUCK was at the door?  
  
*  
  
Pour another drink. Hit Play.  
  
*  
  
Another drink. Hit Play.  
  
*  
  
Another. Again.  
  
*  
  
Dropped the bottle  
  
FUCK  
  
*  
  
Sherlock  
  



	30. Chapter 30

Wait. What country was he in?  
  
He scrambled for something—anything—in the musty room that might hold a clue.  
  
Ah. A note. Handwritten. In French. That was helpful—  
  
Shit. No. He had written it himself.  
  
Damn.  
  
*  
  
Another note. Also handwritten. Presumably by himself, although he didn’t recall writing it.  
  
Just numbers, anyway  
  
Just a string of numbers  
  
A repeated string of numbers  
  
The same string of numbers written over and over in his spidery handwriting with an almost-dried-up pen  
  
The numbers looked familiar  
  
The ink became more and more faint as the numbers filled up the paper  
  
Slanted down falling down  
  
The last few lines just scratches gouged into the paper by the dry pen  
  
A jumble at the bottom  
  
John’s mobile number  
  
*  
  
What did the note in French say?  
  
He glared at it, as if daring it to release its secrets  
  
Because he couldn’t read it  
  
He had written it but now he couldn’t read it  
  
Why not?  
  
Was it because he didn’t speak French? No, of course not; he did that fluently.  
  
was it because the pen had already dried up; ink wasted on numbers  
  
was it because his _yeux_  
  
no that’s not right  
  
his yeux weren’t right because his eyes weren’t right  
  
Am _I_ right?  
  
Nothing to keep me right  
  
Or left  
  
He left  
  
No I left  
  
Why did I leave?  
  
And where did I leave to?  
  
Where had I arrived?  
  
Here  
  
Where is here?  
  
What can I hear?  
  
He heard crying  
  
Who was crying?  
  
No one else in the musty room  
  
No one in the bathroom; did that toilet even work?  
  
It was stopped up  
  
Oh right  
  
He had flushed the notes  
  
All of the notes  
  
He wanted to hear all of the notes  
  
He wanted to play all of the notes  
  
He wanted to play  
  



	31. Chapter 31

“Hello?”  
  
“Hi, John. It’s Mary.”  
  
“Oh, hello. Do you need me?”  
  
“I…?”  
  
“At the surgery, I mean. Do you need me to come in?”  
  
“Oh! Oh. No. No. I was just wondering how you were.” _After that last date—I didn’t believe that you and he were ‘together’ that way. Guess I was wrong,_ she mused.  
  
“Oh. I’m fine.” _Was he fine? Really?_  
  
“That’s good. That’s great. Because I was wondering if maybe you’d like to do something tonight.” _Come on, John. You’re making my job really difficult,_ she fumed.  
  
“Tonight? Mmm… sorry. I’m busy. Got a ‘thing’.” _Did that really work?_ he wondered.  
  
“A thing?” Mary sounded sceptical.  
  
Apparently not. Only Sherlock’s vague lies, lacking detail, worked. _So come up with some detail for her, idiot._ “Yeah. I promised I’d take an old friend to dinner.” There. Specific and yet still vague.  
  
“I see. Well, maybe another time?” _Did I get it right?_ It was a tricky balance—disappointment (faked) versus understanding (faked) versus aggravation (real).  
  
“Yeah. Sure. Sure. Some other time.”  
  
John ended the call, but it distracted him enough that he burned the beans he was heating.  
  



	32. Chapter 32

L’Oasis. Really? Why hadn’t he been able to find an oasis when he was in—wherever it was that he had been. Thirsty. Wherever it was, he had been thirsty, and he could have used an oasis.  
  
Where was he now? He glanced at a street sign.  
  
_Rue Van Orley_ and then _Van Orleystraat_ —what the fuck was that?  
  
But he found the oasis he was seeking and weren’t oases supposed to mean relief from the heat? It was like a sauna.  
  
Oh. It _was_ a sauna. Right.  
  
Went in looked around chatted up men older men older men looking at him liked him he liked them looking at him even though they were older because they were older fuck that last hit of coke was wearing off and he couldn’t focus  
  
Focus  
  
Je cherche Barbe Noire _I’m looking for Blackbeard_  
  
À l'étage _Upstairs_  
  
Stumbling squeezing past men leering men touching him don’t touch me  
  
Ne me touche pas _Don’t touch me_  
  
Finally a room quiet private older man had a beard and long hair he didn’t like beards and long hair he liked clean-shaven and short-haired men short men short man with short hair, clean shaven  
  
He shook his head and tried to  
  
Focus  
  
Qu'est-ce que vous voulez? _What do you want?_ Asked the not-clean-shaven, not-short-haired, not-short but older man.  
  
Je dois obtenir un message à Jacques. _I need to get a message to Jacques._  
  
The not-John paused and looked at him, hard. Es-tu fou? Il est mort depuis deux ans. _Are you insane? He’s been dead two years._  
  
Ne pas être un idiot. Il voudra être en contact avec moi. _Don’t be an idiot. He’ll want to be in touch with me._ He turned to go back downstairs.  
  
Attendez. _Wait._  
  
He turned back, shoving his hands into his coat pockets to hide the trembling.  
  
Si je vous dis comment communiquer avec lui, qu'est-ce que je reçois ? _If I tell you how to contact him, what’s in it for me?_  
  
Il ne va pas vous tuer. _He won’t kill you._  
  
Qu'est-ce qui vous rend si important? _What makes you so important?_  
  
Vous savez ce qu'il aime. _You know what he likes._  
  
The not-John older man nodded. Oui, mais je sais aussi ce que je veux. _Yes, but I also know what I like._  
  
Sherlock’s hands tightened into fists inside his pockets while he forced a sweet smile. Qu'est-ce que tu aimes? _What do you like?_  
  
Je aime les petits garçons doux comme vous. _I like sweet little boys like you._  
  
Sherlock swallowed hard to suppress the gagging as the very large not-John not-Daddy approached him. He flinched and his hand went up automatically, though, holding the man at bay for a second.  
  
Très bien. Mais je ne suis pas libre. Pas à vous. _All right. But I’m not free. Not free to you._  
  
The not-John laughed and it made Sherlock’s stomach feel very odd. Vraiment? Que voulez-vous , alors? _Really? What do you want, then?_  
  
Cocaïne.  
  
Pourquoi suis-je pas surpris ? Vous les petits garçons sont tous pareils. _Why am I not surprised? You little boys are all alike._  
  
He came closer.  
  
Focus  
  
*  
  
Little boys  
  
Little boy  
  
Little  
  
No  
  
No, no  
  
No, no, NO!  
  
*  
  
I’ll be good I’m being good I’m being so good don’t punish me don’t hurt me Daddy never hurts me never punishes me never hits me takes away my things never smacks me takes away my blocks my crayons never takes away my bee where is my bee I miss my bee please can you take me to my bee please can you take me to Daddy?  
  
Hotel hotel was nice hotel room his room big bed he wanted Daddy there he wanted John there he wanted—  
  
Toilet NOW  
  
Sick  
  
Sick of what?  
  
Sick with what?  
  
Couldn’t be sick hadn’t eaten in days  
  
Hands shaking hard to turn tap warm water bath  
  
Scrub  
  
Skin raw  
  
Scrub harder  
  
Could still feel hands on him  
  
Scrub more  
  
Harder  
  
Red  
  
Red?  
  
Blood  
  
His blood  
  
Blood from skin  
  
Cut the touch from his skin  
  
Cut meant to adulterate drugs  
  
No, he didn’t want to adulterate  
  
He wanted to be Little  
  
Adultery?  
  
He hadn’t  
  
he wouldn’t  
  
not willingly no  
  
not to his John  
  
never to John  
  
John  
  
B’s  
  
Bee  
  
He wanted his bee  
  
No heroin  
  
Coke  
  
Razor  
  
Razor for coke  
  
Razor for candy  
  
Candy for little boys  
  
Razor for little boys  
  
Cut it out of me  
  
Cut me  
  
Blood  
  



	33. Chapter 33

>   
>  _If he’s not interested in women, what am I supposed to do?_

She hated texting long conversations, but that was the only way she was permitted to be in contact. No calls. No voices. Definitely no video chats.

> _Become his best friend. Become his cleaning lady. I don’t care. Just get into his life and make yourself indispensable._

Fuck, she thought to herself. What fun was that?

>   
>  _I’ll do my best._
> 
> _You’d better._

God. She hated—HATED—Sherlock Holmes, and she had never even met him.

Seen him, sure.

Had him in her sights. Certainly. Literally.

Knew his voice his walk his hair his habits his tailor the way he took his coffee—all useful things.

And then the dickhead had jumped off a building and fucked up everything.

And although the sight of him splattered on the pavement like that was certainly satisfying, they were all sure that there was more to it than that and who better than his flatmate/blogger/companion/partner/lover to explain things to them?

Once he got his marbles back, of course.

She had hated working in the psychiatric hospital. It had been bedlam.


	34. Chapter 34

“Why didn’t you inform me about this earlier?” Mycroft hissed.  
  
“You were in with the prime minister, sir,” came the reply—a mixture of uncertainty and justification.  
  
“I am aware that I was ‘in with the prime minister,’” he mocked. “You were instructed to tell me the _second_ we got news. This situation supersedes all others. ALL OTHERS. What part of that did you not understand?” Mr Holmes thundered.  
  
The messenger cringed inwardly. He had cocked that up. “It was just a few minutes ago,” he offered, praying that he’d be able to go home with his job intact.  
  
“How many minutes?” the tall man snarled.  
  
He couldn’t help it. He glanced at his watch. Shit. “Thirty or so…?”  
  
Oh, he would be lucky if he went home with his head still attached to his body.  
  
*  
  
“You have the address?” he snapped at the driver.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Get me there as quickly as possible. No excuses.”  
  
Mycroft sat rigidly in the back of the car, watching the grainy feed from the CCTV on his tablet.  
  
Some sort of building; there were far too many buildings of that sort where they were headed. Far too many old, decrepit buildings and hardly any lights and far, far too many places in shadows too deep to penetrate with cameras. Far too many places not covered by cameras at all.  
  
But this spot—this was covered. Horrible quality image and no sound, of course. At the end of the clip he was always relieved that there was no sound.  
  
Four men. There were four men in view of the camera. Four men had been recorded.  
  
Three men entered the frame from the shadows on the left. Too dark, still, even in the dim light of a failing lamp post, and far too poor an image to ever get a positive ID, regardless of what miracles the techs claimed they could perform on the footage.  
  
The fourth man stepped into the pool of dim light from the right of the frame.  
  
He was tall and thin and he stumbled a bit on something; he reached out a hand toward the lamp post to steady himself. A long-fingered, white, trembling hand. He was wearing—well, it could hardly be called clothes. Jeans that were more holes than fabric. Rotting trainers—was that why he had stumbled? A horrid black-and-white striped jumper that was so filthy he almost couldn’t make out the stripes. His head was down; his face turned away from the camera.  
  
Had he been aware that the camera was there?  
  
Most assuredly yes.  
  
The dark curls, ratty and tangled, further obscured his face. But it didn’t matter.  
  
Mycroft didn’t need a high-resolution image; he didn’t need a brightly-lit shot. He would know that man anywhere. In any disguise. In any condition.  
  
“Oh, brother mine,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”  
  
He forced himself to watch the next part six times. It was important.  
  
Three against one, and that one very thin, very weak—but very much aware of where he was and what he was doing.  
  
Six times, and every single time the man pulled out the gun, Mycroft’s stomach flipped.  
  
Six times, and every single time the blurry image frustrated him and he missed it.  
  
Missed the thin, white, shaking hand as it suddenly flashed out; away from the lamp post. Toward the gun. Toward the hand that held the gun. Turned the hand that held the gun toward the man.  
  
He flinched as if he had heard the shot.  
  
The next part he watched over and over until he lost count as the black car flew through the darkness, winding further and further into the deepest of the shadows in the city.  
  
One of the two other men remaining pulled out a tyre lever.  
  
He didn’t need to hear it to know what sound it made as it swung and met his baby brother’s head.  
  
He fell.  
  
He fell.  
  
Oh, God. He fell.  
  
And the two men dragged the bodies out of the light and into the darkness--  
  


> \--and hadn’t been picked up on another camera since. 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

“What the fuck’s wrong with him? Leave him!” A rough voice. A mean voice. He shivered.  
  
“Probably did some bad shit.” That one sounded like he had a bad cold in his nose, but it wasn’t mean.  
  
“No. God. It looks like he got smashed on the head—and like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Crap. We can’t just leave him there.” A third voice—higher; lighter than the others. He heard footsteps, and then the lighter voice was also closer. “Hey. Hey, mate. Come on. You okay? Open your eyes.”  
  
The lighter voice seemed nice. It reminded him of someone. He tried opening his eyes. He winced. It was dark but it was bright. How was that possible? It confused him, so he shut his eyes again.  
  
“You’ve been through the wringer, yeah? Let’s get you sitting up. Your clothing’s a mess, mate.” Surprisingly gentle hands helped him lean up against something. It was cold on his back and he felt very wobbly with his head in the air like that.  
  
“Cold,” he mumbled.  
  
“Yeah. Okay. Here.” He felt something soft and warm over him.  
  
“My blanket?” he asked.  
  
“Umm… sure. What’s your name, mate?”  
  
“’lock.”  
  
“Lock?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Oh, forget him, and let’s get the fuck out of here!” the rough voice insisted. He shrank down, away from it.  
  
“Screw you. Get out of here if you don’t want to help.” There were footsteps then; they went away. “Good riddance to ‘im, yeah?” the nice voice said.  
  
“He said a naughty word.” He tried opening his eyes again. This time, he could see dark and light, but the light was all around them in a circle and the dark was further away. That was better.  
  
“Naughty…? Okay. Yeah, he did.” The nice voice sounded puzzled now.  
  
He was starting to be able to focus now. At least one eye was. The other wasn’t doing what he wanted it to. He reached up and touched it. That hurt, and he gasped. “Owie!”  
  
“Careful. Looks like you got punched or something.”  
  
This was not fun. He finally managed to get someone in his line of vision. He had short, dark hair and a black t-shirt. “Where is this?” he asked. His words sounded all wobbly.  
  
“The park.”  
  
“I’m not supposed to be here.”  
  
“Hey, does he sound all right to you? I mean, right in the head.” That was the stuffed-up-nose voice.  
  
“Shh. Why aren’t you supposed to be here?”  
  
“It’s against The Rules!”  
  
“Yeah, he’s not all there, is he? Well, then he really needs our help, yeah? Hey, what rules?”  
  
He thought about it for a bit. “Not… not supposed to be in the park without Daddy. Not supposed to be out at night time without Daddy.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Do you think he wandered off from a home or something?”  
  
“Maybe from _his_ home. Hey, Lock, where do you live?”  
  
“With Daddy. In our flat.”  
  
“See? He lives with his daddy in their flat. That’s a _big_ help.”  
  
“It is. He can’t live far from here. Why don’t we drop him at the station? If he’s local I bet they’ll know exactly where he belongs.”  
  
“I don’t know. Waltzing into a police station? Not exactly one of your brighter ideas.”  
  
“Oh! The police!” He knew all about the police.  
  
“What about them?” the nice voice asked.  
  
“They help you if you lose something. Or if you get lost. I can’t remember which.” He didn’t like being confused. It scared him. He really, really wanted Daddy.  
  
“Oh, shit. Don’t cry! It’s okay. You’re right. The police do both things. They help you when you’re lost, and they help you when you lose something. You’re pretty smart.”  
  
“I need both,” he replied, sniffling.  
  
“Both what?”  
  
“Both. I’m lost, and I lost something.”  
  
“Oh. What did you lose?”  
  
“My bee. I lost my bee, and I went looking for it, and it’s dark, and I broke The Rules, and now I’m lost, and I… I want my Daddy!” He began to cry in earnest.  
  
He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. “Okay. Don’t cry. We’ll bring you to the police. Okay?” The hands started to help him up. The night air was chilly and he shivered.  
  
“Oh, shit. He must’ve pissed himself. Poor guy.” Something warm was wrapped around his shoulders.  
  
They began walking. ‘Lock was between them and he felt safer.  
  
“His dad must be frantic.”  
  
“I’m sure he is. But you know, we still can’t just walk into that station.”  
  
“I know. We’ll just get him there, and make sure he goes inside, and they’ll take it from there, right? He’s gotta be local. Maybe his dad’s already reported him missing.”  
  
They walked in silence for a bit.  
  
“Hey, Terry?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“What about his head? Do you think maybe he needs to go to hospital instead?”  
  
“No! No no NO!”  
  
“No, what? What’s the matter?”  
  
“No hop… spital… hospital. No hospital!” He was shouting. Daddy sometimes got angry at him when he shouted, but Daddy wasn’t there and wasn’t that why he was shouting anyway?  
  
“Okay. Okay. Calm down. No hospital. They can fix you up at the police station, okay?”  
  
He took a few shaky breaths and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed.  
  
“Christ. Do you think he’s being abused or something?” the nice voice asked.  
  
“Dunno. Not our business. Let’s just get him somewhere safe.”  
  



	36. Chapter 36

“Okay, Lock. You feeling better?”  
  
He considered this and eventually nodded. His head still hurt, but his tummy wasn’t so funny just then.  
  
“That’s good. Now, you see that big building?”  
  
He peered through his one good eye. “Yes.”  
  
“What you’re going to do is you’re going to go up those stairs and through those big doors, and you tell the very first person you see that you’re lost. Got that?”  
  
“Tell the police I’m lost. ‘kay.”  
  
“And you tell them everything you know—your name and about your daddy and your flat.”  
  
“’kay. Be p’lite.”  
  
“What? Oh, yeah, is that another rule? Be polite to the police?”  
  
“Rule is: Don’t be so rude. ‘Cept sometimes Daddy uses naughty words when he tells me that.”  
  
“You’re the limit, you know that, Lock?”  
  
“Limit?”  
  
“Never mind. Go on, now. Up the stairs and…?”  
  
“Through the big doors and tell police I’m lost.” He nodded.  
  
*  
  
“Did he go in?”  
  
“Yeah. He’s in.”  
  
“They’ll take care of him. Get him home.”  
  
“Poor guy. There was just something about him, you know?”  
  
They began to walk back towards the park, keeping to the shadows until they were out of sight of the police station.  
  
“Hey, does Angelo have any ‘extra’ jobs for us?”  
  
“Yeah. After dinner shift Friday.”  
  
“Fuck. I hate those.”  
  
“Yeah. No respect for your waiter on Friday night.”  
  



	37. Chapter 37

“I’m lost.”  
  
The desk officer looked up in surprise. A tall, thin man with pale skin was standing in front of him. One of his eyes was swollen shut and it looked like there was blood in his dark, messy curls. He was wearing a filthy striped jumper.  
  
“Are you, now?”  
  
“My name is ‘lock and I was in the park and I lost my bee and there was a bad man and my head hurts and I want my Daddy.”  
  
“Oh, shit. Yeah.” He came around the desk. The thin man stepped back, looking even more frightened. “It’s okay. I’ll help you, lad.”  
  
“Is my Uncle Greg here? He’s a police… something.”  
  
“No, he’s not, but I’ll bet he’s looking for you.”  
  
“And Daddy and Big Brother.”  
  
“Yup. I bet they’re looking for you, too. Now, what’s your name again?”  
  
“’lock.”  
  
“Lock? What about the rest of it?” He received a frown of confusion. “You know. I’m Sean McDougall. Two names.”  
  
“It’s… it’s…. I can’t remember,” he replied sadly.  
  
“Okay, okay. How about your dad? What do other grown-ups call him?”  
  
“Ummm… John.”  
  
“Good job, mate! So your dad is John and your uncle is Greg?” He received an emphatic nod. “And what about your big brother?”  
  
“Myc.”  
  
“Mike? All right. That’s a big help, Lock. Now, how about this one. Where do you live?” He received a slightly sceptical look.  
  
“In our flat,” was the exasperated response.  
  
“Okay, I had that one coming. Can you come sit down?” Lock willingly took his hand and allowed himself to be led to a bench. As he sat down, the officer saw his jeans. “Oh, did you have an accident?”  
  
He looked down at himself, and his open eye opened wider. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out.  
  
“Oh, it’s okay. It happens. How about… we’ve got some extra clothing around here. How about I go get it for you, and get you into something dry, and then we’ll figure out where your dad and your uncle and your big brother are, all right?” He nodded dolefully. “You sit right there, and you wait for me, and if you can, you try to remember your whole name and where your flat is, all right?”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock looked around himself. His head hurt and his tummy felt funny and his eye was all squishy.  
  
He waited, and he tried to be a good boy. He had been so good so far. He had done what the nice men in the park had said to do, and it was the right thing, because now he was with the police and they would find Daddy and Uncle Greg and Big Brother.  
  
_The policeman had moved to London from Glasgow when he was twelve._  
  
He frowned. How did he know that?  
  
His wet jeans were making him cold. The man had been very nice about it. Daddy was nice about it, too. Accidents happen, he’d say, and help him change into warm, dry clothing.  
  
He wanted his blanket and clean pants and warm jimjams.  
  
He wanted Big Brother and Uncle Greg.  
  
He wanted his bee.  
  
He wanted Daddy.  
  
*  
  
“Got some old jogging bottoms here. Nothing fancy but they’ll be more comfortable than… OH FUCK.”  
  
The bench was empty.  
  



	38. Chapter 38

“There! That feed.” The dark-haired woman pointed a manicured nail at one of the dozen or so monitors they were facing. A tech nodded and typed and suddenly the same image was on all of the monitors.  
  
Mycroft shut his eyes briefly; that always made him a bit dizzy.  
  
But yes, there. There they were. Two men walking slowly along one of the paths in the park and—  
  
And his—  
  
And his brother—  
  
His brother was between them. Someone had wrapped a coat around him.  
  
They moved out of range of that camera.  
  
Back to twelve different images.  
  
“There!”  
  
One image: now further along the path, close to the park entrance.  
  
His brother lurched suddenly away from between the two men and was sick. One of the men, with short, dark hair, patted his back. After a bit, his brother nodded and they began walking again.  
  
Twelve images.  
  
And they went through it again.  
  



	39. Chapter 39

John sighed and flicked the telly off. He had tried watching one of those singing programmes—it was awful. Popped in a DVD but couldn’t focus on it. He had already tried reading the newspaper. He just couldn’t settle down, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.  
  
He and Mary had had a pleasant enough time. She had wanted to cook for him, so they had spent the evening in her flat. She made risotto and that was fine. “Don’t you like courgettes?” she asked fitfully, though, as the side dish remained untouched on his plate. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked.”  
  
They had a nice wine that complimented the meal. He only had one glass. “No, I’m good,” he had murmured, shaking his head as she offered to refill it.  
  
He was aware that when he left, it was still early—early enough that she probably had every right to be a bit miffed. He just hadn’t been able to help himself.  
  
John wondered what was in the air tonight that was making him so jumpy.


	40. Chapter 40

Oh, thank God. After his baby brother had wandered out of the police station, glancing hesitantly left and right, a muddled look on his face, he had set out. The tech monitoring the cameras was on the phone with Mycroft’s driver, giving him live updates as the black car slid through the night. And finally— _finally—_  
  
“There. There! THERE!!”  
  
The car slowed, but Mycroft was out before it came to a full stop.  
  
The thin man stood completely still, terrified by the sudden appearance of the sinister black car and a very tall man in the light grey Prince of Wales three-piece suit from Paul Smith—how did he know that?—jumped out. He frowned. Jumping out of moving cars was against The Rules.  
  
The man  
  
The man in the suit  
  
The man in the light grey Prince of Wales three-piece suit from Paul Smith  
  
He knew that suit  
  
He knew the man  
  
He knew who  
  
He knew it  
  
It was—  
  
“Mycroft?”  
  
*  
  
Mycroft Holmes was not a man who embraced sentiment.  
  
But he embraced the filthy, shaking, far-too-thin, bleeding, reeking man, murmuring the same word over and over. A word he hadn’t wanted to say in two years. Had avoided saying for two years. And now he couldn’t say it enough. Never again. Never again would he lose that word.  
  
Never again.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  



	41. Chapter 41

He was furious with the man who had commanded—commanded!—him to meet at 221B. He had dragged himself there in an utterly foul mood—a three-day-old foul mood that had started the night that he couldn’t settle down. He hadn’t slept well since then, and work had become stressful as he tried to maintain a professional relationship with Mary that she seemed entirely unwilling to accept.  
  
He hated being there. _Hated_ it. He hated the Tube station and he hated the walk from the station and he hated turning onto Baker Street and he hated seeing Speedy’s and he hated digging his key out and he hated letting himself in. He hated knocking on Mrs Hudson’s door. He didn’t hate her, but that was a moot point, as apparently she was out. He had stomped up into the flat, hating every step. Swung open the door.  
  
Oh, God. The smell. That wonderful, familiar smell. Even after all this time and all of Mrs Hudson’s efforts, the flat still smelled—  
  
of Sherlock.  
  
It smelled of books and smoke and dust and peppermint and gunpowder and melted plastic and that odd odour that neither one of them had ever been able to identify but it was still so familiar.  
  
So many memories. Too many memories. His head was bursting with memories.  
  
He had deliberately stayed in the sitting room, nursing his aching, overly-full head; he had not wandered through the rest of the familiar home.  
  
No. Not home now. Not for ages now, despite the familiar wallpaper and sofa and—was that the Union Jack pillow? He had picked it up and pressed it to his face, breathing in deeply.  
  
It smelled—it smelled like smoke and mint and hydrochloric acid. It smelled like—  
  
Sherlock  
  
“Doctor Watson?”  
  
The door to the flat swung open. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the entrance. “Mycroft. What’s this all about? You know I don’t like being here,” he immediately demanded. Was it his imagination, or did he look uncomfortable? Maybe someone had finally shoved his umbrella up his arse.  
  
But who was that behind the supercilious man? John frowned, suddenly wary. “Is there someone with you?” He tipped his head, trying to see around him. Mycroft took a step to the side, revealing—  
  
“Oh my God…”  
  
John’s voice faded as a grey fog filled his vision. Voices came out of it, echoing and smearing weirdly. Was one of those voices his own?  
  


> “No. That’s impossible.” 

“John, are you all right?”

> “No. No. It can’t be.” 

“Sit down, doctor.”

> “Water.” 

A cup was pressed to his lips. He swallowed the tiniest bit, but it helped. He held up his hand. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. I’m…” He stopped. He was seated in a chair that he didn’t remember sitting down in. His chair. His old chair. His own chair. He realized that he was still holding the Union Jack pillow.

He was having a hard time catching his breath.

“John, I’m sorry to have done this in this manner, but I thought face-to-face would be the… easiest way for you to receive the news.” Mycroft was standing stiffly to the side of the chair.

He saw colours and movement and heard footsteps. There was someone in front of him now. He squinted at the figure.

He bent his head down; he was going to be sick.

“John?”

He shook his head, unwilling to open his mouth at that moment. He took deep breaths.

“John. Please look at me.” He complied, carefully. “John. It’s really him.”

“How is that possible?” he gasped.

“I’ll explain everything, but—”

“My?”

That voice.

Oh, God, that voice.

How many times had he wished that he could hear that voice? He didn’t care what it said. It could rant or insult or deduce or say anything it wanted if he could just hear that voice again.

How many times had he watched that stupid birthday video clip?

How many times had he fallen asleep weeping for that voice?

“I want to… can I?” the voice said, hesitantly.

“Yes, of course.”

And suddenly there was someone in front of him on top of him wrapped around him breathing him in

He needed his hands free.

He needed them free to touch.

He needed them to feel the razor-sharp cheekbones and the papery skin and the tangled curls and the bony shoulders and the too-thin chest and the long, white fingers and the full lips and

His eyes

He needed to see his eyes.

The last time he had seen them, they had been open. Staring. Sightless.

He tipped the messy head of curls back with one gentle hand.

The eyes were shut.

He took a deep breath. Tried licking his lips. Tried clearing his throat. His voice came out like rust anyway.

> *Sherlock?* 

Sherlock opened his eyes.


End file.
